


A Sweetheart Neckline, Most Flattering

by sumomomochi



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bondage, Crossdressing, F/M, Incest, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sibling Incest, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 17:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumomomochi/pseuds/sumomomochi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been exactly two thousand and twenty-four seconds since she left the room.</p><p>You wait a further one hundred and seven seconds before she reveals to you what she went to retrieve. You squint at it.</p><p>"A crop?"</p><p>Your sister smiles a smile that could flay flesh from bone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sweetheart Neckline, Most Flattering

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative title : E.L. James Can Suck It (Because This Is How You BDSM Fic Right)

You stand at attention in all your ironic frilliness. Your crotch and thighs itch where your petticoat touches skin, actual underwear not allowed for this "exercise". You are Dave Strider, sixteen and horny, and your sister's alien not-girlfriend makes fucking _fabulous_ dresses.

Said sister _finally_ returns from where the fuck ever she ran off to, giving you an appraising once over. Her face stays perfectly neutral and you're left wondering if you fucked up, stepped an inch from where she left you, sagged the perfect posture she politely requested. You curl your toes into the plush throw rug situated _just so_ in front of her bed, enamored with the feel of nylon stockings shifting against your skin, and stand up straighter. Your face is as impassive as hers, you're sure, but you know that _she_ knows that, deep down inside, you might as well have acid for organs with how ungodly _nervous_ you are. You won't know if you've been good until she _tells_ you you've been good and your sister is a righteous bitch.

She gives you a smirk, just the slightest upward curl of her lips, black as a raven's wing, and you almost sob with relief. You've been standing here for nearly an hour, your inner clock wound tighter than any should be as you mentally ticked down the seconds until her return, when you would get your next polite request. It had been exactly two thousand and twenty-four seconds.

You wait a further one hundred and seven seconds before she reveals to you what she went to retrieve. You squint at it.

"A crop?"

The leather she places against your shoulder, where neck meets collarbone, is warm and soft as a baby's butt. She lets it rest there, tracing butterfly kisses against your skin in preemptive apology before she lifts it again. It returns with a crack, and you flinch, but you're touched with only the soft tab of leather at the end. The impact stings like a bitch but already it's fading.

Your sister smiles a smile that could flay flesh from bone.

"I do not recall giving you permission to speak, my darling brother."

You bite the edge of your tongue, molars bearing down on the muscle. Not hard enough to make yourself bleed, but the sting in your mouth matches your shoulder and you successfully keep your apologies tucked behind your teeth.

"You've been truly terrible," she tells you, circling. Like a shark, cruel teeth hidden behind slick skin. Like a crow, black as night and twice as hungry. She traces the collar of your dress -- A Sweetheart Neckline, Most Flattering -- with the crop and you just barely manage not to shiver, goosebumps raising as she passes over your C-Seven vertebrae. You can't decide if it's because the crop tickles or if it's because she's behind you.

Her voice is silky smooth when she continues berating you; "Don't think I didn't notice the way you slouched while I was gone, and in combination with your vocal outburst? I'm afraid I will have to punish you --" You will abso- _fucking_ -lutely NOT make a Sailor Moon reference while you're in drag and your sister is aiming a crop at you. That is a Very Bad Idea and you know it. You're pretty sure she phrased it that way to test your will.

She tsks and taps the nape of your neck with her crop. You were right; she was testing you and you fucking passed.

"Good boy, Dave," she croons, draping herself across you. Her chest presses against your back and your dick twitches at the contact, scraping against your rough petti, but that's the only move you make. You feel her smile against your skin. "Such a good boy. Perhaps I won't have to punish you quite so thoroughly."

Yeah, your boner is definitely coming back, so fucking _glad_ you've done well and the uncomfortable chub you've been hosting for most the night rises up to full attention like Jesus himself by the time her hands have finished smoothing down your chest. The petti you're wearing is a piece of shit; you know it, she knows it, and Kanaya would be fucking pissed if she knew what sort of fashion blasphemy you and your sister are committing.

Then again, she would probably be pissed if you jizzed all over one of her nice pettis. There's no winning for you. And besides, you're pretty sure this particular petti was chosen specifically _because_ it would be uncomfortable to wear against bare skin. Like you said, your sister is a bitch. 

Your sister hums as she skims her fingertips across where your dick juts out, distorting the shape of the skirt, and you shiver. You can't quite manage to stifle the way your breath hisses out, sharp and hard, everything about this exercise making you hot as fuck under the collar. You're probably getting all sloppy under your skirt already.

"Or would you like me to punish you?" her words ghost against your flesh and it takes everything you have not to make any noise. She lets your need fester, the words desperate to come out rotting on your tongue. You're a good boy, Dave, a good boy, and you will listen to what she says. Then she whispers, "You can answer that."

"Fuck, yes, please. I deserve it, you know I do Rose, just --" The words come tumbling from your lips, half putrefied and completely desperate, the same theme repeated over and over like a broken record until her nails dig into your scalp and your head is yanked back by a fist full of hair. Your words cut off with a strangled yelp only just this side of a moan.

"I see. You did, after all, speak out of turn and that is a most grave offense." She lets you go and you almost stumble trying to keep yourself upright. She sits on her bed and gives you a terse order to face her. You do, careful and efficient and perfect. She gives you another faint, please smile and you feel the tingles of success shoot straight to your groin.

You don't even twitch when she touches her crop against your dick bulge -- such a good boy, Dave -- though you do almost sigh when she uses the implement to trace a line down your skirt. Your crowning moment of glory though, is your perfect calm as she lifts your skirts, prim as a Victorian lady, and it's filthy to watch her watch you. Again, your toes curl into the carpet at her touch, the crop sliding up the inside of your thighs. You're noticeably breathing hard now, not that anyone could blame you, diaphragm straining to keep your breaths quiet and steady.

"Tell me, are you enjoying yourself?" she asks with a quirk of one eyebrow.

You swallow, lick your lips, and nod; "Yeah, sis, I am."

Her smirk is sharp and her eyes, deadly nightshade. Your heart skips a beat; in hindsight you're not actually sure if she gave you permission to speak. Or maybe she did and you just phrased yourself wrong. Or maybe it's one of a thousand tiny little mistakes you could have made. Her crop runs along the underside of your dick and you gasp. The leather comes away sticky with precum. Her next smile is hazy with lust.

"Turn around," she croons, eyes narrowed to black winged lashes, her chin tipped up, lips parted beautifully. Like a retro pinup princess, and you spin. A word drops you to your knees and another has your arms behind your back, forearm over forearm, fingers clasping elbows. Your arms are bound and you know it's with a length of carefully knitted rope, the colour of a bruise with just enough give to keep the limbs from falling off.

You're pulled to your feet only to be tossed onto the bed, face first and with enough force to knock the wind out of you. Your toes dig into the carpet as you rock your hips against the mattress, just once, an automatic reaction. The crop cracks down against your thighs and you yelp, body pulled tense as you try and fail to get out of range. Soft hands push your skirt up again, leaving you bare from hip to thigh. She leans over you, torso parallel to yours, close enough to feel the shifting of her dress as she breathes.

"Are you alright?" she murmurs against your shoulder. You nod, face smooshed against her blanket. She smiles and pecks you on the cheek, "Good."

Her hand smooths over the swell of your ass as she stands again and you're expecting it, this time, when the crop comes down. You gasp, not quite able to hold it back, as your hips rock against the bed again, against your will. The plush quilt under you feels so much nicer against your dick than the petticoat rucked up around your waist.

The lashes come in perfect rhythm, every eight seconds, just enough time between each to suck down air. If the tiny noises you keep making, muffled against bedding as purple as your internal monologue, the sighed moans and bitten back whimpers of pleasure-pain are noticed, they're not mentioned. Neither is the way you're grinding into the bed, getting off on a times two combo of literal pain in your ass and rubbing your dick all over your sister's sheets. You are the nastiest motherfucker, it is you.

You're practically sobbing by the time you feel your orgasm creeping up on you, moaning like a two-bit whore. The crop is coming down harder, and you're not sure if it's because your punishment is being upped or if it's because she's enjoying this as much as you are. Your stomach is sticky where the head of your dick is, dripping precum like a leaky gutter in the midst of a November downpour. Everything in the immediate vicinity of your crotch is either going to have to be washed or burned because, Jesus _fuck_ you are making a mess. Your sister can't say shit though, because it's all her fault. 

The strikes stop and you're left a shivering mess, begging for more. You lift your hips, propped up on tip toes and you're not sure if the line of moisture sliding down one leg is blood or sweat. You don't give a fuck either way because you're so fucking _close_ , you need more. You're speaking out of turn but you can't seem to stop the babbling stream of _please_ any more than you can stop the growing pool of bodily fluids under you. Your sister leans in close again, hands on your bare flesh and the cool skin of her fingers feels so fucking good against the burning hot welts spanning your ass in the most macabre form of crosshatching imaginable. You're still whimpering, begging; a right hot mess.

Her breath is hot against your ear as she whispers, "I do not think you've yet to show yourself worthy, my dear brother. Perhaps there is a way for you to better prove yourself." You nod fervently and she smiles. "Good boy, Dave."

You're rolled onto your back, hissing curses and blinking back tears as the movement twists your shoulder, the joint popping under the strain. Your ass sings glorious agony as your weight is settled on the abused flesh, back arched over your still bound arms. Your dick twitches, bobbing against your stomach, and your sister is crawling up the length of your body, straddling your shoulders. She lifts her dress, a pale lavender shift, and her bare crotch is millimeteres away from your lips. Her fingers card through your hair, coaxing your head up. She smiles when you press your mouth against her groin, the skin pale and smooth, hardly a hint of stubble. She's about as much a mess as you are and you grin against her; you're really happy to know she was enjoying herself.

She makes a soft sound of pleasure and you go to fucking town. It's a lot easier going down on your sister when you have the use of your hands, but she parts under the attentions of your tongue easily enough, hot and sticky slick. Her fingers tighten their grip in your hair, yanking, mashing your face into her junk and you just take it as a challenge, slurping at her clit like the worlds best fucking candy. Her thighs are trembling, chest heaving, her nipples poking delicate points through her neglige as her mouth falls slack. You're a good boy, Dave, so good; you tongue fuck her, lap at her labia, turn your head to kiss at her thighs, lavishing your attention on every bit of her you can reach. Her strings of smarmy intelligence have dissolved into these perfect, petite little moans, and her face is flushed cherry red.

The sharp smack of leather against flesh makes you yelp, jumping at the stinging pain just above your knee. You moan against her, lick your lips, _her_ lips, wet and tangy, so fucking wet and you hope to god that she's close because there's no way you'll be able to last if she continues to strike you like that.

You ignore the repeated floggings as best you can, but they come in fits and spurts now, three in rapid succession, followed by the hollow sound of cane cutting through air as she misses, a tap of just the leather tab, a hard crack as the thick end meets your leg, all while she trembles over you, gasping as you drink her down. The only thing she's capable of vocalizing is her pleasure, your name interspersed with what's either curses or profanity, halting damnations spilling from her lips until she chokes on her words, shudders and gasps and you are triumphant.

She rolls off you, flops out next to you panting and jelly limbed. You turn your head to look at her. The arch of her neck as she watches you with half lidded eyes is beautiful and she smiles.

"My, you've made quite the mess."

You almost laugh but the two of you aren't done yet, and if you want your release you'll have to be good. But you're a good boy, Dave, a good boy, and your sister reaches under you, in the space your arms under your back make, and pulls. The ties come loose.

"Touch yourself."

You do, hands down on your dick in a flash. You've been on the edge for what seems like forever, though you know it's only been just shy of two hours; one hundred and eight minutes; six thousand, four hundred and eighty-nine seconds. It doesn't take long before you come, oozing out over the fingers of one hand while you wipe at your lips with the other, your sister petting your hair lovingly all the while. You collapse in the aftermath. You're exhausted, wrung out and useless. Every bit of pain that was blasted out with your intense orgasm comes creeping back in and Jesus _fuck_ do you hurt. Everything hurts. You even have a headache and you have _no idea_ how that even _works_.

You groan when a cool, damp washcloth smooths over your stomach, then your hand, wiping you clean. You halfheartedly flail at your sister when she goes after your face with the washcloth as well, arguing, "Dude, that is covered in my spunk now."

She snorts, "It's a different one, I promise." You crack an eye open to squint at her and, sure enough, she is holding two different washcloths, the one in her off hand held up for your benefit, pinched between two fingers. You shrug and let her continue, sighing as she kisses your temple.

"Are you alright?" she asks. Her thumb brushes the soft skin under your eye; wet.

"Yeah," you rub away the tears that had escaped with the heel of your palm, "Tired."

You roll over so she can unzip your dress and she hums as she kisses the nape of your neck. "I am not sure I enjoyed the crossdressing factor as much as I thought I might."

"Pity," you say in return, "it's a nice dress. Petticoat was shit though."

"Well, you ruined it so don't complain. Now quit being difficult and help me get this off."

You give a soul shuddering sigh as you push yourself up. Your thighs scream in protest, the movement pulling on the tender flesh. You wobble and sway as you kneel, one hand braced on your sister's shoulder. She shucks you of your clothing quickly, leaving a puddle of lace and frills around your knees, before easing you back down onto the bed.

"Would you like anything for the pain?"

You shrug and kick the skirts off the rest of the way. "'S not too bad. Did I bleed?"

"No." She lies out next to you, pulling you to her chest. She's naked now, soft and comfortably warm. You sigh against her skin and wrap one arm around her waist. "I would suggest you avoid wearing constricting trousers for the foreseeable future though. I daresay the bruises will be quite impressive."

"Christ, I'm not gonna be able to sit, am I? If I walk with a limp I will not hear the end of it, you know that, right?"

"Hush. You liked it."

You snort and plant a sloppy, slobbery kiss against her breast bone. You feel the face she makes into your hair.

"You are absolutely disgusting."

"Hush. You like it."


End file.
